The Five Stages of Grief
by JeGigote
Summary: After the Fall, Sarah is left to pick up the pieces. Post-Reichenbach Fall
1. Denial, Hour 1

****Note: I know the formatting is all screwed up. I've tried to fix it a few times and it just goes back. Sorry.

* * *

**Denial. Hour 1.**

"John!" Sarah's voice echoed down the corridor, staccatoing off the walls. It announced her arrival before she appeared in the small waiting room off the morgue. "John!" Her calls neared-he could tell by the way the Doppler Effect slightly raised the pitch of her voice.

Sarah turned the corner through the door and saw a man wrapped in a hospital blanket and slumped over in a waiting room chair. He didn't-couldn't-even lift his head to acknowledge her. She rushed to his side.

"John?" she said softly, more gently, kneeling beside him. She placed her hand on his knee, shook it slightly, as if to wake him, though he wasn't asleep. He lifted his head to meet her eyes, and his face was a mess. His eyes and nose were red from crying, his cheeks and chin tear-stained. Her eyes searched his. "They called me at the clinic-when they found out your name-because of who he-and you still have the clinic as your employer-" She tried to explain her presence, but couldn't finish a sentence.

"They won't let me see him," he whispered, barely audible. "I'm...I need to..." She rose to sit in the chair next to him, wrapping her arms around the defeated, blanketed man next to her. His body shook like he might be sobbing, but no sound escaped. She waited, hugging him tightly, until the shaking subsided.

"John, maybe it's for the best that you don't see him. He suffered a massive head trauma, crushed skull, his spine is snapped-" She tried to say this both like a doctor and a lover, both truthfully and gently.

"I need to see him, or...or...it didn't happen. He taught me that-go beyond seeing. Observe." She sighed, feeling helpless.

"You saw him, when he...he fell-"

"He _jumped_"-here John's voice took a slightly manic tone-"and I don't believe for a second he was committing suicide. It was some great prank on us-on all of us-and I know he's not there-he's gone-taken off or something-" His voice cracked and he had to stop talking to keep from crying out loud.

They sat like that for a few minutes, Sarah with her arms around John, praying someone would interrupt them, say something, _do_ something, give some air of finality to the moment.

Slowly, the door to the morgue opened, and Molly stepped out. Her hair was disheveled, and it was evident that she'd been crying as well.

"Um," she started in a small voice, staring down at her chartboard. "There's nothing to be done. He's gone. For good." She looked up, first at Sarah, then at John. "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry, I-" She couldn't finish, her face crumpled. She pivoted and dashed back through the doors.

"John?" Sarah asked gently. "Maybe we should go, get you cleaned up, maybe get some food in you? Make some calls-Mrs. Hudson, Harry...?"

"He'll text, he won't leave me hanging like this..." John mumbled, dropping his head into his hands. _No, he won't._ Sarah thought dismally. _He's dead. Dead dead dead. Even if he wasn't, he wouldn't text you, John. He is-was-ruthless like that._She shook her head, ridding herself of the poisonous thought.

"Well, let's not wait here," she suggested. She sort of pulled him up by the shoulders as she stood up. He let the blanket fall.

"I can't go back to-the flat," he whispered. "Not now."

"It's fine, we'll go to mine," she said. "It's closer, anyhow." She guided him out the door, down the hallway. He shuffled like a catatonic, not once looking back.


	2. Anger, Day 6

**Anger. Day Six.**

"John?" Sarah padded quietly towards the sofa, unsure if he was asleep. His sleep patterns had become erratic in the last six days, he'd be up half the night, staring out the window, hardly blinking, and then he'd sleep for fourteen hours. She didn't want to wake him if he'd finally fallen asleep; she'd heard him thumping around the living room at 4 AM with his cane (the psychosomatic limp was back, but she thought it best not to mention it for a while).

"What?" he replied flatly, almost rudely. He was curled up, back to her, and he didn't move to acknowledge her. She steeled herself.

"Would you like some breakfast, or some coffee? I could make eggs," she offered, praying this wouldn't set him off.

"Eggs. Really," he sneered. "My best friend is dead, _he's bloody gone_, Sarah, and you want to make me _eggs_."

"John," she warned, trying not to let her voice break. He sighed, an aggravated, annoyed sigh. She knew this was just him dealing with Sherlock's death, and he was just lashing out, but it was difficult not letting him get to her like this. He'd never said an unkind word to her before...all this, but now he was sneering and snarking and sometimes just plain ignored her. She knew, it was just the grief. It didn't make it any easier to deal with, though.

"_Sorry_," he said, and he meant it. He didn't mean to snap at Sarah like that, it's just that every word shattered his concentration to not think about anything. Not-thinking was the best he could do at the moment, the best he could hope for. "I'm sorry," he whined. "I didn't mean to snap. Coffee, coffee would be good, thanks." She retreated to the kitchen. He rolled over, swung his legs so he was sitting up, reached over the armrest for his cane, and hoisted himself up. Stiffly, he made his way to the window. Another gray day. He hoped it would rain. He wanted the world to feel as badly as he did because of that bastard. "Bastard!" he spat. "You utter, useless, bastard!" He hated Sherlock for abandoning him, especially right in the middle of the Richard Brook case (he couldn't bring himself to even think the name Moriarty). He hated Sherlock for disappearing at a time when he was most popular; John was going to have to answer for him when he emerged from his mourning period (whenever the hell that would be). He hated Sherlock-hated him-most of all for making him watch as he threw himself off the roof of St. Bart's. What a selfish, moronic act! "Idiot bastard!" he shouted.

"John," Sarah said, and he jumped because he hadn't noticed she had come back into the room. "You're shouting again. Toast?" She offered him a plate.

"I'm sorry, Sarah. I'll try to keep it down, I really will. Sorry." He took the plate from her and turned back to the window, balancing the plate in his right hand while leaning on the cane. He nibbled absently at the crust. The smell of coffee slowly filled the room.


	3. Bargaining, Week 2

**Bargaining. Week 2.  
**  
He left Sarah a note-_Going out for a bit, back later, I have my phone, I'll be fine-_-when he slipped out just before dawn. Sleep was still elusive, and after he'd gotten a few hours, he just lay awake on the couch, his thoughts churning. He knew what he was going to have to do; he tried to put it off for as long as possible.

He was going to go back to 221b Baker Street.

The cab ride through London in the pearly gray dawn was blessedly quiet; the cabbie probably sensed that John didn't want to chat. His mind raced as the cab neared Marylebone. What would the flat look like? Did Mrs. Hudson clean it up, clear it out? And, although he tried to press the thought to the back of his mind, would _he_ be there? Would _he_have done anything, left any clues, to let John know he was alive?

The cab slowed to a stop outside 221b, John paid his fare and gingerly exited, leaning on his cane. The only sound on the street was the slamming of the car door and the quiet rumble of the motor of the cab as it drove away. He stared up at the building, the warm brick, the glossy black door with its shiny knocker. His left hand palmed the door key in his coat pocket, turning it around, feeling the serrated edge, pressing it a little too hard into his fingers. He sighed.

The door pushed open silently, but he knew he couldn't escape the bionic hearing of Mrs. Hudson as he thumped unevenly up the stairs. In contrast, the upstairs door to the flat creaked, determined to make this as much like an old-fashioned ghost story as possible, John thought with a hint of a smile.

Quickly scanning his eyes across the darkened flat, it seemed that nothing had changed. Everything seemed to be in exactly the same it had been when he'd left it two weeks ago, and in fact, the stench coming from the kitchen-pickled _something_, he didn't even want to know-confirmed it (and that Mrs. Hudson hadn't cleaned anything yet). Still, he crossed the drawing room to peer out the window, and then shuffled back to the fireplace, dropping into his old armchair.

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson's soft, slow footsteps climbed the stairs. She rapped quietly on the door with her knuckle as she'd always done.

"John?" she asked gently. "You're back?" She pulled the front of her dressing gown tighter, insulating herself from the chill of the flat.

"No," he replied. "Just coming back to see if anything's changed, or if you'd cleaned, or moved anything about-"

"Oh, no, I'm sorry, dear. I didn't think it was right, coming up here without letting you take a look about first, but I can-" He looked up at her kind, apologetic face.

"It's all right," he assured her. "I'm glad you didn't. I thought maybe there would be a clue, or that he-" He couldn't finish his sentence.

"No one in or out for a while," she said. "No, after Lestrade checked everything out, I closed the door and haven't been back in here since"-she sniffed towards the kitchen-"oof! Maybe I should have at least cleaned out the cupboard!" She started towards the kitchen.

"It's all right, I'll do it," John volunteered. She turned back to him.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, don't worry about it. I won't be here much longer, a few more minutes then I'll be out of your hair." He stood, as if to assuage her.

"All right," she conceded, and started out the door. "Just give us a shout if you need anything."

"Thanks," he replied after her. He turned toward the fireplace, staring at himself in the mirror-God, he looked terrible. Sallow, unshaven, dark circles ringed under his eyes. His eyes strayed left to the skull.

"Left us both in a lurch, hasn't he?" he said to the skull. "Bet you'd give anything for him to bore you with his ridiculous ego and insane theories again, wouldn't you?" He took the skull off it's resting spot and held it in his hand, feeling the weight and solidity of it, feeling how much it was really made of _mortality_, not just bone. "Me too. God, I'd give anything for everything to just go back to the way it was. To being insanely dangerous, chasing criminals all over the city, deciphering ridiculous codes, getting no sleep..." His hand began to tremor. "I'd give up the promise of a normal life, of love, a family, I'd give all that up to have you back, Sher-" He collapsed into his armchair, trying to stifle his sobs. He let the skull fall from his hand. It rolled under the brown leather armchair across from him.


	4. Depression, Week 4 to Month 5

**Depression. Week 4-Month 5.  
**  
Sarah shook out her umbrella as she entered the bookstore and dropped it in the stand next to the door. The bookstore was warm and quiet and had that smell she so adored-the musty smell of ink and paper and dust. Being in the bookstore reminded her of every other bookstore she'd ever been in, and how they all had that same particular smell and how she'd felt at home in every single one of them. She smiled at the thought and realized it might have been the first time she'd smiled in months.

She headed downstairs to the History section to peruse the titles. She'd been picking up a book for John every week or so, encouraging him to at least do some reading (_if he was going to be hanging around the flat all day_, she thought, but it went unsaid). He'd start the books, reading the first few pages to appease her, but eventually he'd end up staring off into the distance, and she knew he'd never finish it. Still, with each purchase, she hoped she'd found the book that would finally pique his interest enough to keep reading.

She titled her head, perusing the titles on the spines. _Maybe something about the early American colonies? Or the exploration of Canada? _She avoided titles about war and battles and conflicts for obvious reasons.

"Sarah." The low hushed voice startled her and she dropped the book she had just pulled from the shelf. The tall man in the long coat-Sherlock _bloody_Holmes-stooped to pick it up and put it back on the shelf; Sarah stood motionless, mouth agape.

"No," she said, and took a step back.

"Sarah," he said again. "Let me-"

"No," she replied. "This isn't real. You're not here." She turned toward the bookshelf, squeezing her eyes shut. She'd lived with John's ghost of Sherlock for so long that now _she_was beginning to see him.

"'Scuse me," a man said, trying to pass Sherlock in the narrow aisle.

"It appears I am," Sherlock replied to Sarah dryly. She turned to look up at him, her eyes burning with anger.

"You...have to tell him," she seethed. "Do you know, can you even _fathom_in that enormous selfish brain of yours what he has been through?"

"The Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief model probably works here, so, at this point: denial, anger, bargaining, I'm guessing he's up to, what, depression?" His face was unreadable-not a smirk, but neither a hint of sadness belied his feelings.

"You bastard," she hissed. Suddenly, she had to get out of that place; she felt stifled, as if she couldn't breathe. And she needed to yell. She turned and stormed towards the door.

It took all Sarah's willpower not to slam the door shut behind her in his face, and as soon as she was on the pavement, she pivoted around to face him.

"I don't want any explanation. I don't want to know how you survived, who hid you, where you've been, what you've been doing." She paced as the rain dripped off the awning into her hair. "He doesn't leave the couch. He sleeps 18 hours a day, or he doesn't sleep for days on end. I can't get him to eat-even tea is a struggle. He used to yell at me, at the street, at nothing-God, I prefer those days to what he is now. He hardly talks and I couldn't tell you the last time he actually looked me in the eye. I get him books," she pointed at the bookstore, "because I want him to have to have something to _lose_ himself in for just a few minutes. To distract him from thinking about _you_. And you just _show up_ like you're back from some grand holiday and everything can go back to normal now! Well, it can't!" She narrowed her fiery eyes, leaned toward him, and lowered her voice. "You _broke_him, Sherlock. And I was the only one left to pick up the pieces. And I did because I loved him." Her voice broke, and hot tears mixed on her cheeks with the cool rain.

"Loved?" He asked quietly. She sniffled, composing herself.

"It can't go back to the way it used to be," she replied sadly. "I've seen too much of him like this, and I feel...used up." They stood for a moment in the drizzle, regarding each other.

"Sarah, I'm sorry. What I did...I did what I had to do. And it had its consequences. And you suffered because of that, and I'm sorry." She thought his face softened, just slightly, but it might've just been the rain.

"Save it," she snarled. "And tell him. I can't; he won't believe me. So you do it, Sherlock Holmes, because you may be an unfeeling bastard but I know you don't want this on your conscience much longer. You look like hell." She turned and walked away, feeling slightly vindicated.  
_  
Bloody hell_, she thought with a groan. _Forgot my umbrella._


	5. Acceptance, Month 6

**Acceptance. Month 6.  
**  
The duffel bag landed with a thump as John heaved it onto the couch.

"That's all of it, then," he said.

"How about the books?" Sarah offered. "I bought them for you."

"Keep them," he replied. "I'll have plenty to do with the surgery and getting 221b cleaned out, and the massive amounts of therapy," he joked.

"It's good that you're seeing someone though," Sarah said thoughtfully, her hands in her pockets as she leaned against the doorway. "You've been through a lot."

"Yeah," he replied. "I've got a long way to go, though. Still," his voice softened, became more serious, "you've done so much for me. Thank you, Sarah." He folded her into a surprising embrace.

"You're welcome, John." There wasn't much more to say, and the embrace broke.

"Well," he cleared his throat, "best get going. I've got a lot of work to do today." He pulled the strap of the bag over his shoulder, and headed for the door. Halfway out the door, he stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and turned back toward Sarah. "Coffee in a few days, maybe?" She smiled.

"I'd like that." He returned the smile.

"Great," he said. "I'll text you."

The sun broke through the clouds as the cab headed west, and the bricks on the building seemed to shine a little brighter. John felt a thrill of optimism for the first time since Sherlock had died, and he was actually looking forward to seeing Mrs. Hudson and 221b again, and he was making plans for the future again. It felt good. Life felt good again.

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the hallway as John shut the front door behind him.

"Heard your key. Welcome home, John." She gave him a hug and kissed his cheek. "It's good to have you back. I've got the kettle on, do you want a cuppa?" He smiled down at her.

"Thanks, Mrs. H, that sounds great. Let me just take my stuff upstairs, I'll be down in a minute." He started up the stairs.

"Take your time, dear. I've got your favorite kind of biscuits!" she called up as she headed back to her kitchen.

The sixth step from the top creaked as it always had, and John found that reassuring. His whole world might have been shattered, but some things never changed, and here he was, putting the pieces back together.

He pushed open the door to the musty room, and sunlight was streaming in through the windows. He set down his bag as his eyes adjusted, and he saw him: the tall, thin man in the suit, seated in the brown leather armchair, the skull in his hand.

"Hello, John."


End file.
